


somewhere in the gray area between self pity and self loathing

by tablecloth



Category: Bully (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, as far as the narrative is concerned, short drabble things, using the word drabble loosely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4610649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tablecloth/pseuds/tablecloth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a study on pete kowalski</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

it’s all a little surreal maybe but funny mostly you guess. you should probably approach your whole situation with humor because that’s how a lot of people survive past the most traumatic portions of their lives you think. not that this is all necessarily traumatic. it just sucks. you suck too, though. but not really. it’s not like you’ve done anything to suck, you just don’t have enough redeeming qualities to make friends who aren’t absolutely beyond you in terms of deficient sanity. you’re boring. not boring enough to keep from entertaining the fists of testosterone-fueled and steroid-enhanced idiots, but still boring. you mull over whether you’ve always been boring or if bullworth made you boring or if it’s only in comparison to the unbelievably ridiculous happenings going on there at a day-to-day basis that you’re boring. you wonder if these introspective inner-monologues are beneficial to you in any way or if they’re only further inhibiting you from being any more interesting. you just want friends. you do have friends. you just want friends who aren’t fucked up: that’s a better way of putting it.


	2. Chapter 2

how many times can you sit in place with your ankle resting over your knee and your nails picking at loose skin around your cuticles pretending youre not listening to everyones conversations because you cant initiate or maintain any of your own


	3. Chapter 3

you wonder with idle bemusement why your skin always looks like the purple and green carpet stains left by the watercolor paints your aunt would give you at each of your birthdays. you wonder at what point you became the carpet. you wonder why the hell you still look fucking prepubescent. you wonder why that's such an attractive feature in regards to ass-beating standards and you wonder why you have to be one of the many lights that the moths of your high school-- in all their blind, testosterone-driven glory-- swarm to. you wince every time you sit down and will your eyes not to fill with tears every time jimmy playfully punches your forearm (the same forearm that's been shoved against lockers and floors and bathroom stalls and dorm walls every day since you began going to this hell academy). you bruise so easily and it's a blatant reminder that you have no control over anything in your life anymore. all you can do is follow along and watch your only friends on their destructive paths against one another. you wonder how you expect to acquaint yourself with more people when your best feature is your being an easy output for teenage boys to project their insecurities onto through aggression in either verbal or physical form. you wonder how you became so pitiable and you wonder why you're so goddamn weak


	4. Chapter 4

his hands are soft which is something you noticed once when he grabbed you by the arm to drag you somewhere sometime. it's not that it says that much about him but it also kind of does, you think. he's a meticulously rough (roughly meticulous?) person and his hands not reflecting that is almost strange to you. it's not like they were like, moisturized-soft (you're nearly positive he hates the texture of moisturizer anyway) but they weren't calloused or anything either. it's like, with somebody like him you would just assume that everything about him is going to be a parallel to his personality and yet here this is, gary smith with his soft goddamn hands. and so you think about them a lot. you're thinking about them now while you're curled in your bed with your thoughts getting swirly because you're on the verge of sleep and it's not that you enjoy thinking of him so often but you don't really know that many people to begin with so there's no helping it, you figure. your head is foggy and you wonder what his hands would be like on you again. you wonder whether he knows how to be gentle


	5. Chapter 5

there's something about his face that you think should make him easier to hate. his eyes reflect his inherent revulsion with everything and even during his episodes of mania they shine bright with an absurd amount of patronizing entitlement. there’s something else though, probably not in his face, that makes you not hate him (which you should)


	6. Chapter 6

you wish you could empathize with those things you see online that say stuff about how alone people feel even when theyre with friends because at least that way it would mean you have friends


	7. Chapter 7

drowning is probably the most suitable cause of death for you. drowning is used a lot in art and is probably a dead horse by now but it doesnt change the fact that you constantly feel like youre doing it. like every interaction you have is just your lungs filling with water and you constantly gasping for air in the hopes of getting some level of social sustenance


	8. Chapter 8

what would freud say if you told him you’ve had recurring dreams featuring gary smith’s lips on yours? is it reflective of your startling drop in self-worth? an admonition of a coming end? you wake up at 4 am, face flushed and heartbeat thumping in your ears, and a glance at your door makes you question when you fucked yourself over so badly. you’ll search “stockholm syndrome” on google later, but right now you have to decide whether the knot in your stomach is from butterflies or repulsion (it's almost certainly both)


	9. Chapter 9

it's unbelievable how much more worn out you get now than before you began school at bullworth. it's like, from the moment you wake up to the moment you go to sleep for the night, your life force is just gradually depleting, wearing and wearing until you crash on your bed and spend 6 hours attempting to restore a minimum level of energy necessary to function. you don't really know what the driving factor for this is-- whether it's the classes, the workload, the teachers, the people, the monotony, the stupidity, the inherent frustration. you'd like to sum all of those variables into one source and name it gary but maybe that wouldn't be entirely accurate. at least he makes things interesting sometimes, and sometimes he'll treat you like you're  _something_ , though you suppose you're not entirely sure what that _something_ is. maybe it's a human being. but who are you kidding, that's giving gary far too much credit


End file.
